


Old Movies

by Aris



Series: Marvel One Shots [7]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, One Shot, Poetic nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:31:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>another funeral for a blue eyed blonde haired Odinson.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Movies

**Author's Note:**

> sort of inspired by [Please Eat by Nicole Dollanganger](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dlZCVEJ894I) but mostly it's just the feeling from the song, I'd 10/10 recommend listening while reading. 
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://norsed.tumblr.com)

Loki lives in black and whites.

Like in those old films, the ones that had colour when the wind blew through their hair, but lost it to age old technology and soundless exchanges. He imagines coffee shops in black hues, a pea-coat wearing woman with a dark, dark smile that might have been red once. He pictures himself, drenched in a lack of colour, sipping on a coffee and reading the newspaper, trails of pollution from the street outside winding and spiralling against the glass of the window only centimeters from him. Fine gentlemen with neat moustaches and the raw, metal sheen to cars that was somehow more real than the coloured world could ever be.

He liked that world, the one of subtitles and grainey, sped-up movements. It made for a whole new wonderland, a culture slipping away into the clutches of technology, a land of promise. Preferable to the flashy blue of colours that was New York, 2012. It made Loki dizzy. The streets were too crowded, the people too worn and there was something to the slight rot, the decaying signs that spoke more for the city than the black-suited fat cats ever could. Loki could feel the poison, the people, their flow back and forth from 3am night clubs and endless alleyways adorned with decorated women and men with their hips cocked, the smell of cigarettes and sin drifting from their parted lips. A slow poison and it was killing him, killing him like the painful presence of a necklace, silver and always so, so cold against his exposed neck. 

It was like baring his neck for a wolf, feeling the bite of age-old nostalgia, more than those black and white movies with the french subtitles could ever allow. It was line after line of _'Be good, honey. We'll be good soon'_ and _'Behave yourselves!'_ spoken like, like - like they were ever coming back from that stupid art gallery. It was red-cloaked memories of toy cars and how his hair was always this inexplicable black, matching to his white epidermis, that was such a contrast to their blonde hair. The memories tore at his throat again and again, blue eyes against green and that little document, the one he saw after the funeral, the one that crashed elaborate castles of his imagination down around his head, fortresses ruined, towers falling. 

_Loki Laufeyson_

He closes his eyes, forehead cold against the rain speckled window. His breath, insistent and consistent, fans out against the glass - drawing clouds onto the surface, painting life in abstract - and something wet drips down his face. Condensation or tears, he doesn't know. He thinks of thunderstorms and Thor's face, open and bright, arms welcoming to the elements like it could want him back, embrace it's aggravator. Loki remembers rain dripping down his face and the shake to his limbs, tiny to not-so-tiny and the way Thor had always been warm, even in the rain, like he was made for it. For this earth. It's more than he could say for the rest of humanity.

Thor was at peace with the world in a way Loki could only dream of, a way that made his skin curl in jealously, that forced his hand to blade and cast his mind to the dredges of a lost society. The space he took up was _right_ , the clothes he wore seemed to feel back to their cotton roots, soft against his skin, caressing a component of nature. Loki was painfully aware of the amount of air he inhabited, the space that seemed so large, ungainly, like it had been cut from the fabric of reality with a crude knife, edges frayed and harsh. It felt too much, far too much, and he could feel it's bleeding, sore edges brush up against others, raw and deep and lathered in manners. Thor's little piece of existence was carefully carved out for him, the edges not really edges at all, flowing into everything with a fluent ease - it wrapped around him, light and playful, and when it touched others it soothed. Curved folds brushing the pain, cooling it with something that smelt of rain and lightening, something like hope.

Brow creased in grief, Loki pressed his head harder to the window, let the numbing cold spread across his features. He wanted it to leak into his heart, to drip down over his feelings, to sever the heart strings that were so painfully pulled. Thor was tangled in them, so large and warm, arms wrapped around the cords and fingers brushing blood as it flows, hands dipping in gently, sending waves of tears up and up. Loki could feel his presence, so _there_ in a way he just wasn't anymore. Heavy and satisfying and a burden that made his stomach drop from his body.

_"Loki,"_ he had whispered, _"Loki, please."_

__But. But Loki couldn't do it. Couldn't attend another funeral for a blue eyed blonde haired Odinson._ _

__He watched as the hearse drove by, black car and white reflection cast from the raindrops._ _

__Just like in those old movies._ _


End file.
